“Sir.” Nicholas pushed off the car, stuck out his hand, realized it was burned and black with soot, and shrugged.
Zachery’s voice was flat and angry. “We went to talk to Larry Reeves. Seems someone beat us to him.”
7
PAWN TO D4
Near the Bayway Refinery
From atop a nearby hill, Vanessa stood rigid, numb and disbelieving, as she watched the Bayway Refinery burn. When the tenth ambulance left the facility without its lights and sirens, signaling it was carrying another dead body, she fell to her knees, dropping her ATN NVG7 night-vision monocular to her chest, hugging herself. She had to get it together, had to.
Her Semtex hadn’t done this. The small second explosion, that had been her bomb. She didn’t want to believe what she was seeing, but the horrific flames, the shouts, the screams were all too real.
No deaths. That was her rule, Matthew’s rule. No deaths.
Well, it had been Matthew’s rule until tonight. Now they had blood on their hands, real blood. She wanted to scream with grief, with fury. She heard her uncle’s voice telling her, “Nessa, don’t blame yourself, sometimes things will simply be out of your control, awful things that you’ll simply have to learn to live with. Follow your training, Nessa, you won’t go wrong, not in the end.”
But these were innocent people’s lives, no way around it. However could she learn to live with that?
And she knew what it meant: Matthew had perfected his small gold-coin bombs and used a tiny part of one as a test. Thank heaven he hadn’t used an entire gold coin, it would have wiped out countless thousands and reduced the landscape to rubble.
She knew to her gut it was Darius who’d kept after Matthew to finish perfecting his bomb, Darius who’d decided to test it tonight. It hadn’t taken her long to recognize Darius for what he was—a born soulless killer who didn’t care how many people died. But this time she knew he’d had a reason. To see for himself how powerful Matthew’s new bombs were because he wanted them for himself.
She breathed deeply, again and again, until she calmed. She wondered what Matthew was thinking as he looked out over the killing field and knew it was his creation that had brought it about. Was he as horrified as she was, or was he with Darius, and very likely smiling and nodding at the success of his bomb? All the deaths. And it was up to her to stop both of them.
She rolled over onto her stomach and raised the monocular again. She’d been watching the two civilians. Now they’d been joined by another man, and she realized who they were. Not civilians, no, they were FBI.
Over the past two weeks, she’d memorized files on all the FBI players. The older man was Milo Zachery, head of the Criminal Investigative Division for the New York Field Office. The younger, taller one was that Brit, Nicholas Drummond. Of course she recognized the woman who could double as a biker chick in her black boots and black-framed glasses—Michaela Caine. She’d watched them on the news after they’d helped stop a nuclear attack in Europe. Of course, even without the media flood, Vanessa would recognize Mike Caine. Even back in the day, Vanessa remembered her as a burning light, smart, funny, unforgettable.
Of all the people she didn’t want to see, these two were at the top of the list, but here they were—not more than a hundred meters away, witnesses to the horror that her group had brought about. And here she lay, one of the anonymous deathmongers. And how would she ever learn to live with that?
She remembered the Matthew Spenser she’d met only a little more than four months before. That Matthew hadn’t believed in collateral damage, had abhorred the thought of killing anyone, accidently or on purpose. He’d been gaining more and more attention from the small-scale bombings, as he wanted. And then Darius had come, dumped a million dollars in his lap, and begun manipulating him, changing him. And now this. She knew Darius—or whatever his name was—had a plan, and now he’d sucked Matthew, sucked all of them, into it, made them all murderers, made them all—terrorists. Didn’t Matthew realize he was now no better than the terrorists who’d killed his family?
Matthew had told her so little, and she hadn’t figured out how to get him to open up to her. Sex wasn’t in the cards now, even if he put the moves on her. She simply couldn’t bear to think about his hands on her now, not with the horrible stench of blood and death filling her nostrils. The Matthew she knew was quick to anger, just as quick to laugh, a man who could spend hours concentrating his genius brain on something he was creating. She’d believed he liked her, maybe even coming to trust her, at least until Darius came along. But now she realized he was headed toward something unimaginable, something horrific, and that something involved Darius. She had to find out what it was before it happened, and somehow get her hands on Matthew’s bombs and his formula, or her assignment would be a failure. Now, that was a small order to fill, wasn’t it?
Matthew had almost told her his plans yesterday at their apartment in Brooklyn. They were talking about the logistics of the Bayway bombing, and Matthew, as was his habit, was skillfully weaving a gold coin through his fingers over and over again, like a magician. Wily, no-nonsense Ian had rolled out the blueprints a night supervisor had provided them—Larry Reeves had cost them the rest of their ready cash, though Andy always got his hands on more; it never seemed to be a problem. Matthew and Vanessa ran through the last of the logistics, drinking Bud Light because that’s all Luther from Belfast, one of the boys, had bought at the corner market.
She’d taken a sip from the bottle, eyed him, and thought, Careful, careful.
“Matthew, what’s next? You already have the attention of the world. Every law enforcement organization is looking for us. People are afraid of what you might do next. We’ll have much more destruction at Bayway, a much bigger statement. The FBI will be in an absolute frenzy. What are we going to do to top Bayway?”
He’d reached over and tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Tomorrow the plan will be in place, and no one will be able to stop it—”
And then Ian had come back into the room and Matthew backed away from her and once again was weaving a coin through his fingers. She remembered the first time she saw those gold coins, no larger than a fifty-cent piece, remembered how Ian McGuire, her compatriot from Belfast, was so excited to tell her how he’d met a fellow terrorist-hater all those years ago, and he’d recognized his genius, and he’d happily offered her up to make bombs for him.
She could deal with Ian, but what to do about Andy Tate, that wild ungoverned boy who’d set fires since he was seven years old and, even more, was a computer genius, a hacker of incredible talent, probably more valuable than she or Ian was to Matthew, since he procured the money.
Vanessa saw another ambulance silently leave. Another dead. Had Matthew known what Darius was going to do? Or had Darius simply taken one of Matthew’s bombs and used it? Would Matthew be as livid as she was? Or had he changed that much? She’d never forget what he’d said when Ian had brought her into the group, “No innocents can die, Muslims included, Vanessa. I’m not like those terrorists who kill wantonly. I’ll make my point without death.”
She looked out over the burning refinery. Everything had changed now. It didn’t matter which of them was responsible, or if both Darius and Matthew were complicit. It had to stop.
8
CASTLES
Where was Darius? He was supposed to meet her, and she hadn’t seen him come out of the refinery. She would wait another ten minutes, then she had to clear out because she knew law enforcement would be searching the area soon. Could he possibly be dead, burned up in his own fire? Wouldn’t that be fine irony? And one less terrorist she had to deal with.
Darius had caught her once, walking back to their cabin in the mountains near Tahoe, and she knew his intent immediately. She’d said only, “You force me and I’ll cut your balls off.” And she’d waited, looking at him, emotionless, to see what he would do.
/> “So you prefer your brainy little boy to a man, do you?”
“I’d prefer Satan himself to you.” Not smart, given what she knew to her gut he was, but she also realized, the moment the words were out of her mouth, she’d say them again.
He’d laughed and walked off, giving her a little finger wave over his shoulder. “Later, love,” he’d said, but after that, he’d ignored her.
She’d managed to take a full-frontal photo of him, stepping out of a field shower, the only clear shot she’d ever gotten of his face. He was always careful, and why was that? He was dark, muscular, very strong, his eyes black and cold. Middle Eastern heritage, but he’d been educated in England, given his Brit accent. She’d sent his photo in two weeks ago, hoping for word about who he really was.
Now, as she waited, Vanessa remembered how he and Matthew had been talking together, voices low, before they’d left for the refinery. When she’d come into the room, they’d shut up. In hindsight, she realized of course they’d been finalizing their plans to test the gold-coin bombs, which meant Matthew had been turned and was now a willing murderer.
Vanessa looked at her watch: nearly twelve-thirty. Time was up. She had to get back to the rally point. She couldn’t wait any longer to see if Darius emerged like Lazarus from the flames. Be dead, she prayed. Please be dead.
She bagged up her things, slipped her backpack onto her shoulders, started off down the hill at a steady jog, thinking hard.
Caine and Drummond were going to be a problem. Caine especially, since Vanessa knew the woman was a pit bull—a brainy, relentless pit bull. Now that COE had killed, the FBI would redouble their efforts. Time was running out. She had to get Matthew to tell her his plans, what he was going to do with his magic gold-coin bombs, and she had to do it now.
Matthew was waiting in the mud-caked Toyota Corolla. He’d disabled the dome light, so when she opened the door, there was nothing but the squeak of the hinges and his harsh breathing. He’d turned off the scanner, was staring straight ahead, unseeing, into the night.
He nodded to her. “Ian and his boys checked in, all of them safe. We need to send our statement to the media now—”
Her voice was wonderfully calm. “Matthew, you just did a test run for your bombs. Do you have any idea what kind of carnage you’ve created? People are dead, Matthew, by your hand, not mine.”
He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at her. “Send the media statement, Vanessa. Now.”
She kept hold of her temper. “Darius didn’t come out of the bombing. You even killed your mentor, Matthew.”
9
BISHOP TO F4
Bayway Refinery
Both Mike and Nicholas leaned in so Zachery could hear. “What did you say, sir? Reeves is dead? He was killed?”
Zachery said, “No, but he’s missing. His wife said he didn’t come home from the Dominion Bar to change before his shift. His friend’s name is Chuck Metter; we’re looking for him now. No luck yet. Jersey police are canvassing the neighborhoods, the few who could be spared from this mess.
“We’re running Reeves’s financials now, trying to see if there’s a money trail. Either he decided to bolt or he’s been kidnapped or killed.”
Nicholas said, “Ten pounds says he came back to the refinery to do whatever he was supposed to do to let in the bombers. He obviously needed some liquid courage to pull it off. He may be among the dead or injured. He may be in hospital. I’ll leave word with the EMTs, see if anyone fitting his description was taken away.” Nicholas paused. “Or COE is eliminating witnesses and took him out. They didn’t count on him shooting his mouth off in a bar.”
Mike kicked the tire of her car. “He was our only lead. I hope security has been increased on Mr. Hodges as well. Given what these people have done tonight, their sheer disregard for human life, we don’t want to take any chances with his safety.”
Zachery said, “Nor do I. With any luck, COE doesn’t even know about Mr. Hodges, but just in case, I now have three agents with him. He’ll be fine.”
“You’re thinking revenge?”
Zachery shrugged. “I don’t know, Nicholas, that or an overall cleanup. I plan to have him moved to a safe house later tonight. Now, have they found the initial blast site yet?”
Nicholas said, “They have to get the fire put out first, then it will still be too hot for a few hours. We’ll go in the moment they clear us.”
“New Jersey bomb squads are here; New York is close. They’ll find the ignition point.” Zachery touched both his agents on the shoulder. “I’ve been told what you two did tonight, how you didn’t stop. I met a firefighter named Jimbo who said you were both maniacs and saved his life. I realize you’re both frustrated, exhausted, and angry, but know this—you saved lives otherwise lost if you hadn’t been here, if you hadn’t been who you are.” He paused. “Thank you both. I’m thinking there might be commendations coming to you for this night.” He paused again. “That is, if you catch these scum.”
Nicholas looked down at his hands, covered in soot, the flesh pink and raw, blistered in places, and at Mike, who was staring back into the flames again, also covered in black ash, her blond ponytail gone brunette with small silver streaks. “We’re going to catch them, sir.”
Mike asked, “Has COE claimed responsibility yet?”
“Not yet. But I’m sure they’ll follow the path of the last few bombings—give the media maybe an hour to speculate before their signature letter is splashed all over the Internet and blaring out from newsrooms.” He paused for a moment. “What really concerns me is, unlike the other bombings, people died tonight. At least fifteen, last count, and COE has never killed before. And the bomb itself was more powerful, much more powerful, plus there was a second bomb, lying in the open, almost as if it had been dropped.”
Mike nodded. “Tonight they changed, and I keep wondering why. Why murder people when they never had before? It’s not like they weren’t getting lots of attention. People were getting alarmed, there were politicians beginning to talk about reducing oil imports from the Middle East, the refinery bombings on everyone’s mind.”
Nicholas said, “Maybe there’s something else going on, maybe they now have another, grander plan—”
Zachery nodded. “Yes, or another person is now on board. Another player, perhaps, one with no qualms about killing. Or maybe a separate group entirely, using COE’s MO?”
Nicholas said, “The last bit of chatter in the darknet warned specifically of a California hit, near San Francisco. But now this happens here at Bayway. No, I still think it’s COE. Another player now involved, someone far more violent who’s now calling the shots? That sounds possible.”
Mike shook her head, sprinkling ash down onto her shoulders. “We’re going to have to—”
Zachery interrupted her, his hand on her arm. “Stop. Listen, Agent Caine, both you and Agent Drummond go home, take a shower, get some rest. Nothing will happen until the fire is out, which could take hours. Since you two are our leads on these bombings, JTTF will want to be briefed in the morning. You know they’ll be expecting a full report, so you need to power down and get some sleep.”
Mike had worked for Zachery long enough to know he meant what he said, so she nodded slowly. But she still wasn’t ready to fold her tent.
“Yes, sir.” Mike ran her hands across her face. They came back still streaked black with soot. “I’ve got to hose myself down before I hit the sheets. Maybe get a power wash.”
“We’ll find a place where they can turn a hose on both of us,” Nicholas said, and gave her a wink.
“May I also suggest you put some ice on that shiner?” Zachery said. He patted her shoulder once again, shook Nicholas’s hand, then set off to talk to the firemen at the triage center.
“Get the chemical ice pack out of the first-aid kit in the boot, Mike. It’s quicker than stopping off for a bag
of peas.”
She quickly found the ice pack since all the pool cars had the same equipment. She broke the pack as she climbed into the front seat, pressed it against her face and leaned her head back against the headrest, and felt the blessed freezing begin.
She said, “You don’t have any sleeves. Dare I ask what Nigel will have to say to you?”
He laughed, and it felt good after this nightmare of a night—well, at least for a moment.
He fired up the Crown Vic and headed back for the bridge.
Mike lifted off the ice pack and pulled down the passenger mirror. She really didn’t want to look, but she had to. Oh my, not good. At that moment, she saw her mother staring at her, horror clear on her face. She lightly touched her fingers to her cheek. Bruises galore, and a lovely plus—her skin was lobster-red from the few minutes with the ice pack. She groaned and slapped the visor closed. She looked over at Nicholas. Sure enough, he was smiling, a brow arched. “I shouldn’t have looked. The truth doesn’t always set you free. Sometimes it terrifies.”
He laughed. “You do look like you went rounds with Lord Queensberry himself.”
“Isn’t Queensberry one of your grandfather’s swanky friends?”
“Possibly, though a few generations removed. He’s a famous British boxing enthusiast. You’ve heard of Queensberry Rules?”
“Yeah, yeah, it figures it would be a Brit who decided the proper, most civilized way to go about killing each other.”
He reached over and lightly touched his fingers to her cheek. “Even though you look a bit rough, Agent Caine, all those men you rescued tonight would agree an angel saved them. The ice pack should help.”
She said, “When I’m done with it, you can use it. You’re a bit on the edge yourself.” She paused, then, “And they’d say you’re an angel, too.”
The End Game Page 4
